---
It showed up again today.
The fox mask.
Half-worn, tilted like she forgot it was on, or maybe didn't care.
White with red accents, pointy ears, mischievous slant in the eye.
It always made her look a little unreal—like a background character in a festival scene who turns out to be important in episode 11.
I never asked why she carried it.
Mostly because I assumed she'd make some sarcastic remark like,
> "I moonlight as a shrine spirit,"
or
"It's my personality today. I'm whimsical and mysterious."
Both of which are technically true.
But today, she didn't say anything.
She just wore it for exactly ten minutes of the train ride.
Then took it off.
Then held it in her lap like it had grown heavy.
---
We didn't talk for a while.
Not in the awkward kind of way—just the kind where you know the other person is chewing on something.
A memory. A sentence. A name.
Something that doesn't go down easy.
---
She finally spoke when we reached the river curve. The train always slows there.
It's the one part of the ride where you can see water, cranes, and light hitting metal in this oddly poetic way that makes people like me think we're deeper than we actually are.
She stared out the window, mask still in her hands.
> "You ever have an object that... just stays with you?"
I blinked. "Like trauma?"
She snorted. "Wow. Okay. I was gonna say 'like a teddy bear,' but sure, that too."
I shrugged. "I don't own anything from childhood."
She looked at me, surprised. "Nothing?"
"Lost. Given away. Burned in the great closet purge of eighth grade."
She hummed, nodding. "Sounds violent."
"It was emotionally cleansing."
---
She turned back to the mask.
Ran her thumb along its cheek.
> "I got this when I was five."
That was new.
She rarely attached real dates to anything about herself.
> "Summer festival. Dad took me. Won it at one of those ring toss stalls. You know the ones where the guy rigs it so you never win the prize you want?"
I nodded. I knew the type.
> "I wanted the goldfish plush. He won the fox mask."
She smiled faintly.
> "Said it matched my smirk."
I almost smiled too.
That tracks.
---
> "I wore it for the rest of the festival. Wouldn't take it off. Even while eating yakisoba. There's a photo somewhere of me spilling sauce down the front of my yukata."
She paused.
> "It was the last festival we went to."
My throat felt tight.
She didn't say why.
Didn't have to.
---
> "After the divorce, I took the mask with me. Started sleeping with it. Like it made me braver."
She laughed.
> "You know how some kids sleep with security blankets? I had a fox demon."
I didn't interrupt.
There was something sacred about how she said it.
---
> "I stopped bringing it to school eventually. Too childish. Too weird."
She looked at me then, like checking if I agreed.
I didn't.
I just met her eyes.
So she kept going.
---
> "But I always kept it in my bag. Even when I hated everything. Even when I told myself I didn't need anything."
She held it up again.
Looked at it like it had betrayed her. Or maybe saved her. Or both.
> "Sometimes I think I only got on the train in the first place because it was in my bag. Like I thought the mask would protect me."
I wanted to say something.
Something comforting.
But I've learned by now — she doesn't need comforting.
She needs listening.
---
> "That day I met you… I hadn't planned to get on the train."
She laughed, soft and sharp. The kind of laugh that covers something that might've hurt if said without it.
> "I missed my stop on purpose. Just kept riding."
I turned toward her now.
She didn't look at me.
> "Then you showed up with your stupid lo-fi jazz and your... your unwillingness to shut up even though you weren't saying anything."
"That's a complex way to say I'm introverted."
She ignored me.
---
> "You sat next to me like it was no big deal.
Offered me an earbud like we'd known each other for years."
> "And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to wear this."
She tapped the mask.
> "Not even metaphorically."
I leaned forward a little.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make sure she could hear me.
> "I'm glad you got on the wrong train."
She looked at me sideways.
> "It wasn't the wrong one."
Her voice was quiet.
> "Not anymore."
---
We didn't talk the rest of the ride.
Just sat there.
She put the mask back in her bag. Zipped it shut like she was finally okay with letting it rest.
No longer armor.
Just memory.
---
At her stop, she stood up.
Adjusted her hoodie. Took a breath.
"Thanks for listening."
"Thanks for talking."
She looked at me and smiled — and this time, no mask in sight.
"See you tomorrow?"
"Only if you don't bring your entire childhood trauma in accessory form."
She rolled her eyes. "Too late."
And then she left.
---